


The Worst Type Of Metaphor

by MintSauce



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, dream fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintSauce/pseuds/MintSauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian crashed to the ground broken and shattered and bloody, just like Mickey had made him with his fists and his words and everything he let remain unsaid in the silences in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Worst Type Of Metaphor

It always started off the same.

Ian was always standing there in his uniform, the landscape around him blank and meaningless. Just all yellow buildings and sand; and he looked gorgeous standing there with a small smile on his mouth, eyes squinting up at the sun.

His freckles stood out against his skin.

His red hair stood out against everything else.

And Mickey would watch as Ian peeled off layers of clothing, a jacket, a shirt, a t-shirt. And then he’d just be standing there in a white vest top, dog tags handing around his neck and shining in the sun in a way that made Mickey’s fists clench at his sides because he didn’t want that reminder.

And he’d be stripping layers off himself with each layer of clothing until Ian looked younger, more innocent than he had done when he’d left. Until the Ian in front of him now was almost the exact same one who’d first forced themselves into Mickey’s life with a crow bar and a smile so fucking wide Mickey thought it had to have hurt.

He stood there, no real muscle anymore on his arms. Just looking young and fragile and Mickey wanted to hide him away from everything. Protect him.

And then Mickey would watch as Ian would turn towards him and his eyes would light up as he smiled at Mickey like he used to. And Mickey fell for it every time, like the worst sort of decoy. He’d feel lighter, better, happier for just a second.

Then soundless bullets would tear through Ian and red would be blooming on that crisp white shirt.

Ian would still be looking at him, not looking shocked at all, not looking like he hadn’t expected this. Instead looking like he’d always expected to get hurt after all. And Mickey could see the worst sort of pain in Ian’s eyes, something that went so much deeper than physical.

It made him feel ill.

Then Mickey would be banging on the glass between them, wanting to touch him and hold him and say every word he’d swallowed down. Except he couldn’t break through and Gallagher couldn’t hear him, because Mickey had had his chance and now all he could do was watch as his mistakes unfolded around him.

As Ian crashed to the ground broken and shattered and bloody, just like Mickey had made him with his fists and his words and everything he let remain unsaid in the silences in between.

Each morning Mickey would wake up gasping, back arching off the mattress and his head filled with all the worst types of metaphors for all the ways he’d fucked up. 


End file.
